


Or Maybe You've Got Somewhere Else To Be

by summerstorm



Category: Glee
Genre: Character of Color, Community: femslash_today, F/F, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Tina has an unorthodoxly passive-aggressive way of getting what she wants, but it's easy on her nerves, and nobody ever thinks she might have had ulterior motives all along; it just works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or Maybe You've Got Somewhere Else To Be

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt at the February 2010 femslash_today porn battle: "Glee, Santana/Tina, eyeliner".

Tina may be shy, but she's not stupid. She started faking a speech impediment to get out of a potentially embarrassing situation, and she's kept it up without raising any doubts for years. Maybe she has an unorthodoxly passive-aggressive way of getting what she wants, but it's easy on her nerves, and nobody ever thinks she might have had ulterior motives all along; it just works.

Tensions have been running high for the past couple of days in the side of the hotel floor where the McKinley glee club is staying through regionals. Tonight, though, they're all dining in as a _group_, and going out as a _group_ and coming back as a _group_ and then getting smashed on poor, cheap alcohol and ridiculous drinking games and pass out on the floor of Finn, Mike and Matt's hotel room. As a group. On Mr. Schue's orders. Well, the alcohol wasn't _his_ idea, but Tina's pretty sure he knows about it and thinks it's much better than having his students pulling at each other's pigtails backstage before the show.

Tina's also pretty sure they'll embarrass themselves to tears and they'll never talk about any of it until there's another debacle about a solo or a choreography or an outfit color scheme or a fetus and someone runs their mouth and uses it as ammunition, because glee club is composed of good people who frequently turn into vindictive bitches, and vindictive bitches who occasionally act as though they're good people.

Tina has lucked out this weekend, because she's rooming with Mercedes, who is generally good to _her_, and Santana, whose modus operandi is hit first, plan later. Santana's actually kind of a nice person, especially when Brittany's around to police her, and she has a great hand for make-up.

So does Tina, truth be told, but there's no way Santana's looked past her own nose attentively enough to know that.

So, when Mercedes picks up her handbag and looks back at Tina to figure out if she'll be okay if Mercedes leaves her alone with Santana for a few minutes, Tina just nods and tells her to go right ahead.

"You don't need help with your hair? Outfit? Where's your eyeliner?" Mercedes asks.

Tina smiles calmly and says, "I had t-to wash it off earlier, it got in my eye," and feels her heart settle down only when Mercedes slams the door behind her.

The problem with simple, detailed plans is that there are _so many things_ that can go wrong with them, including but not limited to somebody staying back and keeping the plan from being set in motion.

Santana's in the bathroom, struggling to make her hair stay in place without brushing it back into a ponytail, and she only spares a glance for Tina when Tina walks in and around her and rests her hands on the countertop, observing her reflection in the mirror.

"Your clothes say you're going out, your face says you're curling up in bed with bad action movies and a ton of fries to get over a break-up," Santana says without making eye contact, choosing instead to apply some light brown lip gloss to the corners of her mouth. "Which is it?" she adds then, making it sound like Tina should have inferred the question from her statement.

"Which is what?"

"Which one are you doing," Santana barks.

"I'm supposed to m-mingle," Tina says. "And Mercedes and Kurt are going t-too, so— I just can't feel my hands, it's so cold."

The other thing about simple, detailed plans is that sometimes everyday life things like the fact that it's winter in Ohio can play into it. Despite the perfectly—painfully—functional heating system in the hotel, their room is practically freezing. Both windows have been open for a while in an effort to get out the smell of burned fiber from the purple extension that caught on Tina's hair dryer earlier—when it wasn't attached to her real hair, thankfully—and the cold breeze has seriously infiltrated Tina's bones.

She can still move, and she does feel her hands, and she could probably fix herself up if she wanted to, but it's not that big a lie. It's just a little white-knuckled one.

There's a loud honk amidst the rustling of leaves and cars and loud show choir freaks while Santana zips her toiletries bag closed. Santana takes notice of it and turns to Tina, looks her up and down. Tina feels a little disappointed in her own body for lighting up so soon and at something so _standard_, but if everything goes well a lot more than shivering should be happening within these four walls soon, so she forgives herself.

"Wh-what?"

Santana grasps at Tina's elbow and says, "Come here, I'll do your make-up," sighing like it's a huge sacrifice and shaking her head like Tina should get tested for abnormal levels of stupidity. None of which is unusual, and none of which Tina takes personally.

Tina lets herself be manhandled into leaning back against the countertop and tries not to breathe too hard when Santana scans her face closely and attacks her jawline with creamy pale pink foundation on her fingertips. Her other hand holds Tina's neck in place, like she's going to try to break away or something, and Tina arches into the touch, reveling in the way Santana pulls away just a fraction and frowns for a moment before putting on an overly serious expression again.

"Don't get used to this," she says, sharp, and Tina presses her lips into the tiniest, most confused smile she can manage.

The smile is real, but the confusion isn't so much; it's moments like this that make Tina think if she can just find a way to break Santana's icy hot demeanor, rehearsal downtime and backstage time would be so much lighter on the bitchiness, because Santana would be busy doing things different from lying to herself about the way she sometimes looks at Tina.

Seriously, Tina may be shy, and she may pull ridiculous stunts to cause other people to take the first step towards what _she_ wants, but she's not delusional. She's not making things up.

Or maybe she is, and this will end in tears. Purple tears, even, if it all goes to hell after Santana puts the eyeliner she's rummaging in Tina's things for to its intended use.

Tina considers sitting on the counter for this just it will stop digging into her back, but that seems a little too abrupt, so she rests her body back on her elbows instead, legs stretching to reach the floor while Santana settles back before her, so close, and uncaps the long gray pencil.

The cough is an accident, definitely, brought on by a sudden breeze and the smell of Santana's hair gel; it makes Santana step back, brow furrowed in self-concern, and when Tina folds her palms over the edge of the counter and stands on tiptoe to stretch her legs, her shirt rides up.

Santana's eyes peek down and stay fixed for a second too long—the skirt Tina's wearing has a low, low waist, and there's skin showing, her hipbone and a bit of her belly, not exactly flat, because Tina doesn't work out much and enjoys food too much and too happily to care for diets, but still something she suspects Santana's thought about—thought about touching and kissing and maybe licking and god, yeah, so that's why Tina just coerced her into doing her make-up.

Santana's lips part lightly, very lightly, barely half an inch of space between them, and the tip of her tongue darts out between her teeth in a subconsciously pensive way that nearly makes Tina's brain short out prematurely.

The noise from the streets fades away and then there's a slam of a door and Santana says, "Maybe that'll keep the cold out," and Tina's eyes shoot open to find Santana holding the eyeliner right in her face.

Right. Plans. Breathe in, steady but a little nervous, a little shaky. Pull knees further apart to give Santana extra space, a chance to get closer. Yeah, that works, and Santana's forearm brushes against Tina's breast until Santana realizes it's there and holds onto the counter instead, quick and telltale. Before long, it's Santana's breathing that's snappy, short puffs of warm air falling over Tina's cheek every time Santana leans in closer to see what she's doing, and then Tina moves and gets what she imagines to be a waxy purple line across her lid.

"Shit," Santana says, at the same time Tina mutters, "Sorry," and then Santana adds, "I can do something with that," and her thumb flies to Tina's eyelid to smear it out.

She does something to Tina's eyelash with her other hand, and when it comes back down, it stumbles across Tina's, which has slid over the left-behind space.

She could just move it over, but somehow Santana's hand winds up on Tina's hip instead, thumb tracing patterns around her hipbone as she buries her other hand in Tina's hair and stretches her thumb to fix something around the corner of her lips.

Tina's mouth opens before she can think about it, and her tongue sneaks out to graze Santana's skin.

There's a long moment of silence, a tremor in Tina's thighs that brings how hot her entire body feels to her attention suddenly and without build-up, and just when she thinks this simple, detailed plan is the kind that _has_ to fail, she feels a pair of lips on her, and it's like something _snaps_ as Santana licks her mouth open, and suddenly there are fingers sneaking underneath the hem of her shirt and over her belly and a tongue sliding over hers and a hand palming her breast, tentative but intent, and Tina kisses back as hard as she can without breaking the idea that it's Santana who has the upper hand, who gets to wish and touch and take.

"I thought you wanted to go out," Santana whispers against her lips, low and rough and involuntary, without any implications that she expects an answer, and Tina whimpers in response, arching into it when Santana squeezes her breast, over her shirt first, and then directly under her bra—Tina doesn't even want to know how Santana's so adept at unclasping bras from that angle, she just wants that _hand_ to stop teasing and not just brush her skin, pinch and—

"Yeah," Santana says when Tina moans, fingers playing with one nipple and then the other, getting them hard and sensitive enough that when Santana's hand disappears and the fabric of her shirt sweeps over her breasts, Tina bites back a groan, but she can't keep her hips from jerking into thin air.

Santana keeps kissing her, lips never getting further than Tina's jaw, the spot where her ear meets her neck, like if they don't have a chance to talk then Santana won't have to deal with her hang-ups about dating geeks like Tina—or kissing them, or palming their breasts, or slipping her hand under their skirts, _Tina_'s skirt.

Santana breaks away to get Tina's underwear off properly, looking down and closing her eyes before she tilts her head up and kisses Tina again.

It comes to a halt quickly this time, though, because, Tina figures, pushing someone's shirt up over her breasts in a well-illuminated room is the kind of thing you want to be looking at while you do it. Tina knows she would if she were the one undressing Santana. Or if Santana were undressing herself.

She should make that happen.

For now, she hooks a leg around Santana's thigh, and feels sweetly exposed when her skirt hikes up and Santana's hand moves between her legs, creating a light current of air.

Tina shrugs away the urge to shut her eyes tight and not open them again until she passes out from exhaustion, because she wants to watch Santana watch what she's doing to her, even if all she's seeing is the shape of her wrist as covered by Tina's dark blue plaid skirt. Tina would definitely rather keep it to the sense of touch, anyway; they're in a bathroom, they can't move to the freezing room adjacent to said bathroom just now, and, while Tina likes to think she defies the laws of introversion, this is, it's weird. There's a foreign hand massaging her breast and holding her shirt over it, and she can see her own nipple peek out under it, and then there's Santana's fingers between her legs, getting closer and _oh_, God, touching her, spreading her open, and Tina hasn't even done this to herself that many times, and she's so relieved it's good, so relieved Santana hasn't put the denial mask back on, so relieved Santana's top is crumpled and her jeans are so tight Tina can almost feel her thighs under her palms and she's offering Tina the most gorgeous view of her cleavage.

She grasps hard at the counter and feels herself get wetter as Santana keeps teasing her, dipping just a fingertip in, only brushing her in passing where Tina needs to be touched the most, and she finds herself _whining_, begging without words, and in the one tiny corner of her mind that's not hazy with lust, she knows that's how it will have to go for a while; she knows she needs to give Santana a chance to feel like she's fallen into this by accident, just because Tina wanted it so much, was so _obvious_ about it, and she knows she's going to have to play it up.

It's not really hard, to be honest, because she does want her badly, and the feeling becomes headier and more difficult to hold back the closer Santana is in the same unavoidable way her hips move forward, seeking friction, urging Santana to stop tormenting her and get her _off_.

Eventually, Santana takes pity on her and does.


End file.
